Cost
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: After years on the road, Sam reaches a breaking point.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: After years on the road with Dean, Sam reaches a breaking point.

A/N: This is a little depressing. I'm not sure what possesses me to write such things--I certainly would never want this to happen. But I just find angst so intriguing and Sam is just so riddled with it!

Disclaimer: Again, not mine. Just messing around.

**Cost**

Sam stared at the wall. It was a dull brown shade, the color of snow when it turns to slush, the color of wet leaves before they decompose. He could imagine it had once been a soothing color, nondescript but durable, but it had had a tumultuous life in the seedy motel.

The furniture had chipped veneer. The lights emitted a dim glow, hampered by dust and low wattage. The lone piece of artwork drooped in its frame. The picture was of a mountain landscape, tall majestic peaks towering over a field of wildflowers. Even in the poor light, Sam could see that the color had faded. The wildflowers were nothing more than muted smudges against a gray backdrop.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes traveling the wall, following the lines of the wallpaper up and down, up and down, occasionally straying to the mirror above the dresser. In the mirror he could see the two small beds that flanked a single nightstand. There was a TV on the dresser. He thought about turning it on, to break up the silence, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

Dean went out to pick up some local color, leaving Sam to do some research on their next gig. Sam had intended to, but when he saw himself in the mirror, he was suddenly paralyzed by his own reflection. It was like when he looked into Bloody Mary's mirror, seeing himself change until he didn't recognize himself. He hadn't been able to look away then, and he couldn't look away now, although he knew there was not an angry spirit trapped behind the glass.

He had been on his way from the bathroom to the desk. He had walked by thousands of mirrors, he had seen himself a million times, but this time he just had to stop.

There was something in the way he walked. There was something in the way his eyes flickered. There was something in the way his face set like stone.

It just hit him: he didn't know himself. That familiar stride, features, everything—it was foreign to him. The man in the mirror looked nothing like the boy who went to Stanford and fell in love, the boy who was too sensitive for hunting, the boy who wanted to be someone, someone normal, the baby in his brother's arms, innocent, as their house went up in flames.

It made him sink to the bed. He turned his gaze from the mirror, but he still could not move. His life suddenly caught up with him.

It had been three years. Three years on the road. Three years with Dean. Three years with Dad missing. Three years of facing everything evil. Three years since Jessica died. Three years since he'd been happy.

He didn't know when he finally realized this life was about more than justice, when his anger melted into determined routine. When he finally accepted this as his destiny, just as his father had always told him. When he finally gave up the dream of a normal life.

He could argue the loneliness away. It was a duty, a protection. He needed to save the world, one demon at a time. Sure, he thought about finding the thing that killed his mother, Jessica. He thought about finding his father. But those were destinations, ones he almost knew he could never reach, and he finally knew that he would be doing this forever without end. This duty fell to him, and he could not run from it. This was his destiny. It became his mantra,his life, but it was never satisfying.

It just cost so much. All the nights in dingy motels, all the dangers he faced, all the loneliness, night after night, spanning in front of him like the road they always drove on. He had filled himself with the hunt, justifying his misery as a mission, a necessary side-effect of saving people.

But he was empty. And nothing seemed to be able to fill him.

It was sacrificial; it was altruistic.

But he surrounded himself with strangers, and he had become anonymous. He had no one to give it to. No one to make it worthwhile. Dean had always run from emotions, and after three years, they were running out of small talk.

Nobility wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to give him meaning. He didn't want to be a tool anymore. He didn't want to be the hero. All his efforts couldn't stop evil anyway.

And the evil—it consumed him. He lived it, dreamed it, breathed it. Sometimes he couldn't figure out what thoughts were his and what thoughts were not. It was as if he didn't know where he began and it ended.

Nothing was worth that cost.

He had given up his life for it in all ways but one, and it was the way he had always valued least.

For a moment, he believed he could leave it. He could tell Dean he dreamed evil and was dying. But Dean would never understand. He would never let himself understand. Sam had only been consumed by the hunt for three years; Dean had been consumed for a lifetime. He didn't exist apart from it.

It wasn't Dean's fault. It also wasn't Dean's decision.

He saw the 45 his father gave him on the dresser. It was the only piece of this life he had never left behind. It represented his legacy. It was his beginning, and now it would be his end.

He picked it up. He trembled. But he had let it go on long enough. He released the safety and closed his eyes. He knew if he pulled the trigger, it wouldn't cost him anything.


	2. Paid in Full

A/N: So I wasn't going to continue this story but enough reviews commenting on wanting to know what happens next sort of made me think about it. The main reason I never wanted to write another chapter is because I wasn't sure which way I wanted to go. I didn't want to go some cliched, happy ending route because that would almost undervalue the emotion I was going for in the first part. Ultimately I couldn't decide. So I offer two possible endings. This is the first one, and this is the one that is hardcore **character death**. I think it ends a little abruptly, mostly because I didn't even want to get into where it would go from here. So you are warned.

**Paid in Full**

Dean stared at the wall. He stared at it until he couldn't see it, until it became blankness, until he became numb.

He wasn't surprised.

Terrified, broken, grieved, angry. But not surprised.

He didn't even have to speculate what happened. He didn't even try to convince himself that some evil had sneaked in that night in his absence. Because Dean knew. Dean had always known.

He had tried to mingle with the locals, trying to find a good time for the night, possibly sniff out a scheme to earn some extra cash while he and Sam were between jobs. Sam never wanted to come, so he had stopped asking. He figured his baby brother needed some alone time. After all, Sam had always been the silent moody type, even when they were kids.

The night had been unsuccessful and boring. This small town was typical of many, and they had poorly timed their stop. Wednesday nights apparently didn't bring out the party-animals in Redding, Alabama.

He had come back to the motel early, picking up some fast food to try to get Sam to eat. He rarely saw his brother eat, but even Sam could not resist grease and fat.

The minute he opened the door, he saw the blood, and he knew.

He moved without his own knowledge. He could not feel his legs as they moved closer to the bed. He felt himself wretch as he stood over the bed, taking in the gore.

He tripped over himself as he ran for the trashcan in the corner. He emptied the Whopper he had eaten in the car promptly into the plastic bin. When the heaving stopped, he slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall, panting in the corner. From his vantage point, he could see part of Sam's unmoving body, but the blood was obscured.

His eyes traveled from his brother's body to the wall, where he stared, searching for answers, for reasons. It offered nothing.

He already knew the answers, the reasons. He had known the cost all along.

He had known it when Sam was little and wanted to play sports instead of hunting. He had known it when Sam preferred reading to self-defense techniques. He had known it when Sam fought with his father time and time again. He had known it when Sam left for Stanford. He had known it when Dad disappeared and he turned to Sam for help. He had known it when Jessica died and Dean never made him talk about it. He had known it when Sam's eyes pleaded for discussion and Dean opted for crude jokes.

He had known it and never done anything about it. He had known it and been too scared to face it.

Dean could see the gun, lying next to Sam's body. It seemed appropriate to Dean; Sam had killed himself with the weapon his father had given him to defend himself.

A sudden, violent sob shook him, and he could not hold back the emotions. For all the ways he had endeavored to save Sam's life, he had neglected the one way that mattered most.

And he had paid the ultimate cost.


	3. Payment Deferred

A/N: And this is what we all would rather have happen. I'm still not sure which one makes for a better story, though, which is why you get both :)

**Payment Deferred**

The gun felt heavy in his hands, cool and metallic. Although he had carried it for years, shot it countless times, it felt foreign suddenly, out of place.

His hand dropped to his lap, and he looked at it in wonder. He studied it unblinkingly until he no longer understood the gun's purpose or recognized the hand that held it.

It was enticing. More tempting than the forbidden fruit in the Garden.

Just one shot. And it would all be over.

He jumped when he heard the door open. He stared in disbelief as Dean sauntered in, carrying a Burger King sack, the bottom stained with grease.

"Nothing much going on around here on a Wednesday night apparently. I tried Karaoke night at Gary's Bar and Grill, but it got a little too country. Plus all the waitresses were over 40 and the clientele seemed to be unfamiliar with the invention of deodorant and toothpaste." He tossed his keys on the bedside table. "Got us some dinner, though," he said, plopping the bag on the bed next to Sam. He then took off his coat, tossing it on the opposite bed.

Sam watched his brother's casual movements, feeling surreal. The bed shook as Dean sat down. Sam's eyes traveled to the bag, and he stared.

Dean seemed to look at him for the first time. "Sammy?"

Sam's trembling intensified. He turned his stare slowly back to the wall, his eyes wide and dilated, barely aware of the tears that were forming.

"Sam?" Dean asked again, concern tingeing his voice. He tried to shift, to get a better look at Sam, who was seated, unmoving on the edge of the bed.

Dean had dealt with his brother in many situations; he had seen Sam through many trials and joys. He had thought he could read his baby brother like a book. Sam rarely liked to mingle in the small towns they visited; Dean figured Sam needed that alone time to sort his thoughts. When Dean had gone out, Sam had not been abnormal. Quiet, reserved, dark—but normal. So he was surprised to hear a choked sob escape from his brother's lips.

"Sam?" he asked, more gently now. He stood, moving so he could see Sam face to face. As he moved to the front of the bed, his confused concern turned into genuine fear. Sam held a gun in his hands.

His first impulse was to grab the gun. While it was not pointing in any direction, he could tell from Sam's disposition that something was awry. He supposed it was possible Sam had encountered some uninvited force while he was out, but Sam did not fall apart after killing a ghost. Noticing the shivers racking Sam's body, Dean swallowed hard, stilling the trembling that threatened his own extremities. He forced a laugh. "Killing the cockroaches with the 45 may not be the most effective defense," he quipped with a cavalier grin. "I also think it might annoy the manager."

Sam gave no reply and Dean's fake smile faded. He tried to peer into his brother's face, but his head was fixed downwards, his hair obscuring his face. "Hello," he said. His nervousness began to mount. "You going to say something or are we playing charades?"

In general, Dean allowed for Sam's emotional moments. He knew Sam needed to talk every now and then, and then they could insult each other and move on. Things like that passed between them, lost in the multitude of unsaid things. Usually their talks followed a distinct pattern. Sam would be quiet, a little moodier than usual. He wouldn't laugh at Dean's jokes.

This was different. Sam wasn't just quiet tonight, he was downright unresponsive. His baby brother wouldn't even look at him.

Finally, Dean squatted, trying desperately to get some reaction from his brother. But as his eyes searched his brother's face, he felt cold.

Sammy's eyes were distant, his face pale and drawn. His baby brother looked like a shadow of himself, a ghost of the brother he had grown up with. The vacancy in Sam's eyes unexpectedly terrified him. Sam had never looked so lost, so empty, so haunted. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes met his suddenly, as though he finally realized Dean was in front of him. The brown eyes widened. "Dean?"

"Yeah," he replied, trying to sound calm. "Something you want to talk about?"

Sam's breath hitched, catching in his throat and new tears spilled down his cheeks. He looked down again, at the gun, and shook his head. "I thought I could end it. I thought I could make it right. I thought I could finally get away."

Dean's mind reeled. He tried to deny Sam's words, their meaning.

"This is the only way out. This is the only way out that I can see. But I lost it."

Dean played dumb. "Lost what, Sam? What are you talking about?"

"I'm already dead, Dean," Sam blurted, looking back into his brother's eyes. "Don't you see that? I'm already dead. I've been dying a little every day of my life and now there's more of me that dead than alive, and I just can't do that anymore."

His brother's words were coming too quickly and Dean's mind struggled to keep up. "Sam, why don't you just put the gun down and we can go out and we can—"

"We never talk about it, Dean. We never talk about it," he said. He raised the gun. "This is all there is left between us. This is the only way left to talk."

Dean tensed, his breath quickening. "That's not true, Sam."

"But nothing will change. Nothing will ever change. Nothing I tell you will change any of this. You'll still find something else to hunt and this will all just continue. And I can't. I can't. There are some things worse than death, some things that just aren't worth the cost. I lost it a long time ago, and it wasn't you, and it wasn't Dad, and it wasn't Jessica—it wasn't anything, but I can't just keep dying day after day after—" Sam's voice broke.

Dean was nearly prepared when Sam fell apart. He could see his brother's energy dissipating as his rant became irrational. His brother seemed to crumble, fall in on himself, dissolving into tears. Petrified and uncertain, Dean moved in, first gently prying the gun from his brother's fingers, putting the safety back on and setting it on the ground before grabbing Sam in an awkward embrace.

Sam's sobs became uncontrollable, the venting of years and years of unshed emotion. Dean held his brother tighter, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, praying thanks that his brother was still alive, that maybe it wasn't too late.

He had always been afraid to let Sam speak. He was afraid of the questions Sam would ask and the answers he would have to give. He was afraid of truth, of the honesty that would break down his tenuously built world with a single blow. He didn't know how to be anything other than a hunter. He clung to the same things that had brought his father to the hunt, although after three years without him, he was beginning to lose the point. He wasn't ready for that vulnerability. He wasn't ready to admit that he didn't know what to do and that maybe he wanted more.

That was fine. He could go on, keep hunting, avoid everything. It wouldn't cost that much, he had always figured.

Just Sam's life.

Nothing was worth that cost.

He had saved Sam's life repeatedly, in all ways but one, and it was the way he had always known mattered most.

Now he knew he had to open up. He had to listen and he had to speak. He had to understand. He had to let go of the hunt. He had to exist apart from it.

He had struggled against this for years, but suddenly it was an easy decision to make.

He could see the 45 out of the corner of his eye. He had nearly lost Sam to it tonight. In his mind's eye, he could see Sammy receiving the gun and he remembered the proud look on his father's face as another son became a hunter. It had protected Sam time and time again; it had never left his side. Dean imagined it was a bit of a legacy, one that his brother didn't know how to put down.

Dean would throw it in the next lake he found. He held Sam as his sobs diminished and he was trembling in his arms. Theirs was a family of blind followers; groping after one another in the dark. There was safety in knowing that it was never their choice, that it was fate. There was a certain security in never knowing how close they were to the edge, that they would never see their own death as it rapidly approached them.

But if fate had had its way, Sammy would be dead tonight, and Dean would have nothing left to live for except memories of broken hearts.

Dean could not stop the tears from slipping from his own eyes as he held Sam. In the safety of darkness, he had almost lost sight of the only thing that mattered for the sake of the hunt. He had let it go on long enough, and it had nearly cost him everything.


End file.
